One-Shot a Week Project
by dbluewillow
Summary: Every Monday, I post a short, Splatoon-related thing. This week, a reluctant Agent 8 gets dragged back into Cap'n Cuttlefish's schemes.
1. Fatale

**Author's Note:**

I've got a new job, new home, and new life, but I've still got an itch to _create. _I wanted to get back into writing without tackling anything big, so here's my latest project! This is where all my new story ideas, short pieces, and drabble will go.

* * *

_Fatale  
A take on post-Octo Expansion life_

**Friday, 7:00 p.m.**

Outside, the weather was comfortably cool for a summer evening. The sun was beginning to set, and the clear sky revealed purplish hues that were slowly fading toward red. Throngs of people streamed up and down the sidewalk, chatting about their weekend plans. Eight tucked her chin to make it harder for security cameras to catch her face and headed in the direction opposite her intended destination. She stopped outside a florist, pretending to look at the flowers behind the window rather than the reflection in it, and quickly memorized all the bodies nearby. One left turn later, she looked into another window. After yet another stop, the Octoling felt confident nobody was following her. Standard counter-surveillance measures. _Not really necessary,_ she told herself. _Not anymore. _

She entered a cafe and sat down at the bar, trying her best to feel comfortable. The barista came over and took her order. Eight managed to mumble the words "iced" and "coffee," but she didn't really want one. Her brain was already sending her warning signals. _Bad spot to sit in. My back is toward the entrance. Can't see who's coming in or out. _Had she been conducting surveillance or waiting for a contact, Eight would have put her back to the wall, sitting somewhere out of sight. _Poor field of view here. I should move. Need to move. _But she wasn't, of course. She was trying to find somewhere to relax after another long day at work, and most people in this city did that in some cafe or another. Apparently, iced coffee was the fashionable drink of choice among young adults. When in Rome...

The barista came back with her drink, placing it on a cork coaster in front of her. Eight instinctively scanned every individual she could see. Only a trained eye would have noticed what she was doing—the ex-assassin could make detailed observations while looking pretty natural. _There's a couple behind me, talking loudly and oblivious to everything else around them. One old man to their left on his phone. Mr. Barista is relaxed. Guy on my right is sturdily built and looks like he can take care of himself in a fight. Door opening. Two more coming in, but I can't get a good look at them. _The nagging warning signals from her brain finally got the best of her, and she turned around. _These two are young, too young to be dangerous. _Eight paid for her drink and left. She wouldn't have been able to relax in there. Her training just wouldn't allow for it.

Eight had wanted to leave her old life behind. Now a resident of Inkopolis, she wanted to begin anew. Her memories were gone, anyway. But she had a very particular skill set, and Captain Cuttlefish had no intention of letting it go to waste. _It was a pipe dream, thinking you could ever lead a normal life._

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	2. Cabin Fever

**Author's Note: **

In the game, there is no way for Agent 8 to visit Octo Canyon. I think it's because Captain Cuttlefish doesn't want her there.

* * *

_Cabin Fever_

Just another cloudy day  
Octo Canyon outskirts

Eight could not take her mind off the abandoned cabin. It stood out like a sore thumb in her brain, a thing conspicuously avoided by her tour guide, a topic intentionally ignored during their overview of Tentakeel Outpost. A secret, perhaps? Was the cabin really abandoned? She had seen the ramshackle building, obviously—there was no way her tour guide had not noticed that fact—so Eight wondered if this was some kind of test. Maybe she was _supposed _to be curious about the abandoned cabin.

The tiny old man had offered her a tour of the NSS that morning. Or more accurately, _multiple _tours. Captain Cuttlefish had described the New Squidbeak Splatoon as sort of being everywhere, which Eight started to understand when she stepped out of the sewer grate for the first time. The NSS had no central location like Cephalon HQ, from which Octavio used to run his operations. Heck, the NSS didn't even have real buildings.

"This is Suction-Cup Lookout," Marie proclaimed. The old man had sent one of his granddaughters to show Eight around in his stead, which Eight didn't blame him for. Captain Cuttlefish's little legs quaked as if they would give out at a moment's notice. The Squid Sister continued speaking, "Here, we have half a dozen of our own homebrew kettles, which tap into the Octarians' local network. They're invisible until you get close, and we use them to run our patrols."

The kimono-clad Inkling waved her parasol vaguely in the direction of the lookout, which to Eight looked more like a construction site than a proper base of operations. The place was a mess of stray crates, lonely brick walls, and freestanding support beams. Like all of the other NSS bases throughout the Canyon, Suction-Cup Lookout hung suspended in the air, open to the sky above and the sea below. From afar, it might appear seemingly abandoned. Eight's thoughts drifted back to the cabin. She had committed its location to memory, like any trained agent would have, and resolved to pay it another visit.

That night, Eight crept through the Inkopolis Square sewer grate back to Tentakeel Outpost, constantly checking to make sure nobody was following her. Eight retraced her steps from that morning through the outpost until she caught sight of the mysterious cabin again. This time, she got an up-close look.

It was a strange-looking hovel, shoddily constructed, yet heavily decorated. The thin, wooden walls held up an uneven roof of misaligned planks, all painted the same shade of salmon pink. Some unlit paper lanterns hung from the awning. They were a recent addition—they looked new and clean, while the rest of the shack was worn out and covered with a visible layer of grime. The walls themselves were adorned with a geometric window pattern despite being completely solid and windowless. No door in sight. A rusty satellite dish poked out from the top of the cabin, partially covered in rubble that had fallen down from the surrounding mountainside, and a bench built into the front wall sat covered by a bright green tarp. In the darkness of the night, the abandoned cabin looked quite suspicious.

In the darkness of the night, Eight also nearly missed the wire. A black thread ran up one of the paper lanterns and into a crack between the roof planks. It was a switch, Eight realized, and she gave the lantern a light tug. For a moment, nothing happened. Then one of the walls caved in, folding in half again and again upon itself like a big sheet of origami paper. Inside the cabin was a set of concrete stairs leading underground. Eight clicked a handheld flashlight on, deciding that she was not about to leave this place without first satisfying her curiosity.

Tiptoeing her way down, Eight took a right at the landing, then another right after continuing past a short, poured-concrete hallway. The path ended at a heavy-duty, stainless steel door. _Squit_, she thought. _I suppose this is as far as I'll get_. She tried the handle anyway, fully expecting it to be locked.

But it wasn't. The heavy steel door swung outward, silently but slowly. On the other side, a cramped, square-shaped room played host to a huge glass ball on a pedestal. It was, Eight realized, the biggest snow globe she had ever seen, cracked at the top and patched up with heavy-duty tape. Quite a strange sight. The last thing she would have expected to see down here was an enormous snow globe.

Stranger yet, there appeared to be somebody inside of it.

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	3. A Second Opinion

**Author's Note:**

We never get to hear DJ Octavio's side of the story. Why is he so intent on attacking Inkopolis? What really happened during the Great Turf War?

What if the Sunken Scrolls are wrong?

* * *

_**A Second Opinion:  
they say history is written by the victors**_

**A gusty evening  
104 years ago**

As autumn gave way to winter, temperatures dropped throughout Octopolis. What would have been a cool evening breeze just days prior was now an unwelcome gale. The general shivered as he wrapped his long, black coat more tightly around himself. Only recently promoted, he found it somewhat embarrassing that someone of his rank would be bothered by the wind. A soldier should be tougher than that, he thought to himself. To serve as a good example for the people, a soldier must remain steadfast and strong in the face of anything. The general, then, must be a fortress.

The Octarian officer crossed the street and made his way through the Arm, a culturally rich district of the city. He liked to describe the place as "cramped, but loving." Buildings sat side-by-side, tightly packed together. Each was host to a wealth of traditions, family histories, and tall tales. In the warmer months, all kinds of people, Octarian or otherwise, crowded these streets. But the evening chill was keeping them inside tonight. On his left, he passed by _Zen Station_, a well-maintained antique shop that, in the owner's own words, only sold "shiny things." Children always got a kick out of exploring the store, discovering the metallic trinkets and polished jewelry which populated its shelves. Two blocks in the other direction lay the Paradise Lanes, a set of streets dedicated to the Arm's more artistically-inclined individuals. The young general was not one of them himself, but he appreciated the beautiful window displays and street-level painting galleries. That the Lanes could flourish at all was a testament to the prosperity of Octopolis.

The Arm was also the home of _Salt & Batter-y_, which, in the general's own humble opinion, served the best fried food in the entire city. Maybe even in the entire world, but he hadn't gotten around to confirming that fact yet. It also happened to be his wife's favorite restaurant. In fact, this was the place where they had first met, on a night when there weren't two open tables for one.

Parked on the curb outside _Salt & Batter-y_ was a familiar black sedan. It belonged to her, and the sight of it made the general's heart flutter. He dared to crack a tiny smile. She had arrived first, apparently. The general was never late, but his wife was always early.

"I've already set a table for two in the back, and the usual is being prepared for ya," a waiter declared as the general entered the restaurant. "Kept her waiting, Octavio!"

"Thank you, Auggie. Good to see you as always," the young general replied.

The dim, warm glow of the restaurant's wall lamps made everything look cozy, if very orange. The general thought it a welcome reprieve from the cold outdoors. He found his wife sitting at a small roundtable in the back of the restaurant, facing the entrance. Their eyes met. He could have sworn that, for the briefest of moments, time itself had stopped.

"I believe congratulations are in order, General Octavio!" she sang, raising her wine glass as he approached the table. "A toast to your well-deserved promotion."

"I missed you so much, Manta," he spoke, taking the seat opposite her and squeezing her hand. "Welcome home." He leaned over the table and gave her a kiss.

"And what a warm welcome it is. I don't think I could have lasted another day out there, hearing nothing but awful news."

Octavio removed his coat and placed it on the back of his chair. "Was it really that bad?" he asked.

Manta took a sip of her wine. Much like Octavio himself, she was one of the educated elites, an Octoling with a powerful family background and the training necessary to maintain that legacy. She had been out to sea for nearly a month, collecting data on rising surface temperatures. Manta sighed, then said, "It's… It's accelerating. The oceans are getting warmer at a faster rate than ever before. Shorelines are closing in, and we still can't figure out why. We saw some really devastating wrecks out there, Octavio, where there were once people and communities. Everything is getting torn apart by the encroaching waters.

"It's… It's really bad," she continued, swirling the remaining wine in her glass. "Most of these communities are Inklings. They've got nowhere to go. But they don't want to work together. They don't want to build new homes or help each other at all. They're a bunch of lazy bums, what with their simple predator brains. They're turning to stealing, and violence, and… well, you run this city now. I'm sure you've read the reports."

"I wish I hadn't," Octavio said with a grimace. He had indeed read the reports. According to them, a select group of Inklings calling themselves the _Squidbeaks_ had even begun terrorizing the Octarians who lived in border territories. They aimed to force the Octarians to surrender their home city and turn authority over to Inklingkind. Their reasoning was even more ridiculous, citing the Inklings' superior numbers in population and a superior _number of limbs, _of all things. Worse yet were the allegations that the Squidbeaks had gotten themselves into Octopolis proper. Three nights before, a bomb went off in an alleyway. Two Octarians had been killed and several more injured. The Squidbeaks took credit for the carnage, promising more attacks against their supposed enemies.

Octavio didn't fully buy it. "They're just a few bad apples," he said. "Most Inklings are fine people, and they will need our help."

"Our _own _people will need our help, Octavio," Manta spoke, draining her glass. "Those terrorists might be right here in Octopolis! Besides, the Inklings have their own leaders to look after them!"

"You mean that _excuse for a government _in Ink Valley?"

"Yes!"

"The _only_ person worth his salt in that _band of idiots_...!" A few of the other patrons in the restaurant turned their heads to look at what sounded like a heated argument. Octavio paused for a moment to catch his breath, realizing that he had raised his voice in anger.

_The general must be a fortress_. He continued speaking, keeping his temper in check. "The only competent Inkling that I have _ever_ met is Cuttlefish. They are not like us, Manta. There are so many of them, scattered across so many different places. Ink Valley, Ink Canyon… their lands are vast, even if their intelligence is not. No one man, not even one as capable as Craig Cuttlefish, could possibly govern all of the Inklings, let alone a single Inkling held back by those _halfwit imbeciles_ and a lot of underdeveloped infrastructure."

Manta nodded in agreement, brushing back a lock of jet black hair. "Why not give in to Ink Valley's demands then, and hand over half of our baby Zapfish?" she proposed.

"Never," Octavio whispered. "We're keeping them. They've managed to kill _all two dozen_ of the poor creatures that we graciously lent them last time. I cannot believe that, after showing that level of negligence, they would dare demand that we give them _more_ Zapfish. And on the threat of war at that!"

Manta snickered. "You don't believe that they'd actually declare war on us, do you?"

"No! I'd like to see them try!" Octavio said, laughing with her. "We have the most advanced defenses in the world! Our people, our military, and our technology are second to none. We have technicians trained to operate every Great Octoweapon in our arsenal. Most Inklings don't even know how to arm themselves if you were to hand them a gun. They can't even get out of bed in the morning—how could they possibly win a war?"

"What about the Squidbeaks?"

"My people are seeking them out as we speak," Octavio assured. "The chance that an Inkling knows how to make a _bomb_ is slim to none at best, anyway."

With that, their food arrived. In between bites of crispy katsu, Octavio gave Manta's words some thought. What _could_ he do for the Inklings? How would they respond? Why did all of this have to be so difficult?

"I just want to help them!" he blurted out in frustration. "Why can't they see that?"

Manta reached across the table and gently squeezed her husband's hand, looking at him sadly. "I know you do," she said softly, "but here's a second opinion. Help your own people in Octopolis first and worry about the rest of the world later. Protect those close to you before you start reaching out. You can only spread yourself so thin."

He supposed she was right. He didn't want to admit it, and he didn't really want to consider the conflicting nature of his goals. Would protecting his people mean hurting others? Would he even be able to give an order like that? Unsure how to respond and finished with his meal, the general offered to foot the bill.

His wife rolled her eyes. "What a gentleman. You know we already share all our money, Octavio," Manta reminded him with a kiss. "Let me go warm up the car."

As he pensively counted out his coins, Octavio heard Manta start the engine outside. The ignition sputtered and screamed, with a ticking wind-up noise that sounded like a clock getting faster and faster. Too fast. The general's blood turned to ice when he recognized that sound.

"No!" Octavio yelled, jumping out of his chair. He whirled to face the door and heard one of his coins hit the floor with a clang. But Manta turned the key again.

Three days later, with the first snowfall of the season, the Octarians declared war.

**¤~§~¤~§~¤~§~¤**


	4. Off the Hook, Line, and Sinker

**Author's Note:**

I created the first draft of this in one sitting, while jacked up on a lot of hot coffee. It is summer. I am sweaty. Here is the bio from the Final Splatfest that I used as a writing prompt.

_Agent 8: Team Order  
__Even Octolings who've been freed by the Calamari Inkantation don't lose their disciplined personalities. Agent 8 can't sleep at night until every nearby weapon has been methodically cleaned and checked. In fact, I hear Sheldon might be looking to hire Eight to work at Ammo Knights._

* * *

**A rainy morning  
****Inkopolis Square**

Ammo Knights always opened at the crack of dawn. That meant Sheldon Shellendorf had to make his way to the Galleria every morning before the sun rose, while the rest of Inkopolis was still enjoying the final hours of a good night's sleep. A morning person, Sheldon liked getting up early and preparing to open up the shop. He wasn't so sure about his head custodian, though. There were a lot of things about her that he was less than sure about.

He took a peek outside the window and tried to make her out. Despite being an Octoling in a primarily Inkling-populated city, Eight had a curious way of blending into her surroundings. Sheldon smiled when he finally caught sight of her in the rain. Over the years, he had gotten better at picking out the redhead. The thing about Eight was that there were all these little signs hinting at the life she had left behind. The way she glanced over her shoulder before approaching doors… the way she doubled back and made two circles around the block before entering a cafe, despite the fact that it was pouring… the way she walked, even—_too brisk for a tourist, yet too observant for a local_, Sheldon thought. She looked into storefront windows every few minutes, which he knew was her way of checking to see if anyone was following her. Her memory was so good that she could glance at a reflection and remember every single person in it based on their clothing and height.

The head custodian of Ammo Knights entered the shop exactly one minute before her shift started, not that Sheldon was counting. The job title was something of a joke—she was the head of absolutely nobody else in the store, and her skillset was far beyond that of a simple custodian—but Sheldon's idea of a joke was apparently different from that of a former Octarian soldier. Eight took everything seriously and at face value.

"Sorry I'm late," the Octoling spoke, shaking the rain off her black umbrella. In her other hand, Eight carried a cup of coffee. Cream, no sugar, Sheldon knew. The quiet girl drank the same thing every morning.

He chuckled. "Nah, you're just not as early as usual."

"...You were standing there waiting for me," Eight observed. "Is something up?"

Sheldon chuckled again. He could never hide anything from her. "Uh, yup. I have a special job for you today!"

"Does it involve travel?"

"Yes, it does! H-how did you know that?"

"...Lucky guess?"

Exhaling through his nose, Sheldon said, "I'll give it to you straight. There's a weapon designer in Octo Canyon. He wants to partner up with Ammo Knights and sell his work in Inkopolis."

"...Okay..."

"He specifically asked for you to go talk to him! I figured you'll be able to tell whether his designs are truly fresh or not, since you're more familiar with Octarian gear than me." Not only could the redhead clean and repair any weapon, Eight was also a fantastic weapon designer herself. Her eye for detail let her foresee potential problems in any blueprint that Sheldon handed to her. Anything she missed, Eight would pick up on during stress testing. She could fire three shots from a prototype and feel when something was wrong. Ideas for improvements would already be forming in her mind. She had a real knack for guns. _A knack that has made me lots of money_, Sheldon thought to himself.

"What's his name?" Eight asked.

"He didn't say; wanted to remain anonymous."

"Then... how does this work?"

"Simple! You go to this address and talk to the man. He sounds like an older, richer kind of guy." Sheldon replied, then unfurled a crumpled piece of paper.

"How much am I getting paid?"

"I'll cover your travel expenses, and he said he'll take care of lodging and food. You'll be getting the equivalent of a three months' bonus, and I'll give you a 40% cut if you actually strike a deal with the guy!"

"When should I leave?" Eight said without skipping a beat. A deal like that was too good to be true, she was about to find out.

* * *

**11:00 a.m.  
****Octo Canyon**

In the years following the Splatocalypse, travel between territories became significantly easier. Contrary to what a victory for Chaos might have suggested, the city of Inkopolis actually managed to get quite a lot done in terms of improving infrastructure and cooperating with its neighbors. Former enemies, working together, built direct train lines that connected Inkopolis, Octo Valley, and Octo Canyon—no more sneaking out on foot and diving through filthy sewer grates. Eight hopped on the nearly empty Morning Canyon line and stepped foot on Octarian soil an hour before most people would be eating lunch.

Lugging a black suitcase packed with her things, Eight then hailed a taxi out of the town square. She directed the driver to her intended destination. The driver, a single-tentacled Octotrooper, commented on her familiar accent. Eight spoke the Octarian language fluently, after all. A relaxed drawl in her voice marked her as originally from the Valley. It was a reminder of the time before she lost her memories.

The mystery businessman lived in a fancy part of Octo Canyon. It was a place that seemed to be modeled after Inkopolis's high-end suburbs. Well-maintained gardens surrounded ornate mansions in an extravagant display of wealth. Overhead, dark clouds began to gather. They had seemingly followed Eight out of Inkopolis.

She exited the taxi, paid her driver, and rang the buzzer in front of the house's main gate. No response. She checked the time on her phone: three minutes after twelve. The instructions had been to arrive promptly at noon. Eight rang the buzzer again, and still, there was no response.

As it began to rain, she called Sheldon on her phone. "Hey, the mystery man isn't answering the door. What should I do?"

A chuckle came out of the other end. "Maybe you should've arrived on time?"

"Come on, Sheldon, you know I'm never late on purpose."

"Just teasing! Uh, there was actually a change of plans. He called me and said that he had to take off for a meeting or something."

"Sheldon, it's raining cats and dogfish. What do I do?"

"Okay, uh, he actually left me his security codes. You're right outside his house, right? He wanted you to go inside, I think."

"...Into his house?" Eight asked, bewildered.

"Yeah, he said he'll be back in a few hours and that you should make yourself at home. Do you have a pen and paper handy?"

Eight stared at the security keypad on the gate. She felt the rain on her hair. She briefly considered pulling her umbrella out of the suitcase, then said, "Just tell me the codes, Sheldon. I'll remember them."

Sheldon rattled off a string of eight numbers, then another string of eight numbers. Eight memorized both and hung up. She punched the first code into the keypad. The gate opened. She followed the driveway up to the front door of the mansion. There, she punched in the second code and made her way inside.

The foyer was dark, spacious, and modern. The owner of the house was a fan of utilitarian, light-colored furniture, Eight noticed. Directly to her left, an end table held up a porcelain bowl. The bowl contained a letter addressed to a Ms. Meri Tursas—Eight's work name. She sliced the envelope open with her finger and read its contents.

Introducing himself as Maximilian, the absentee homeowner apologized for his eccentric schedule. He was originally an artist, but the military had picked him up and paid him to design firearms for Octarian soldiers. Now, Maximilian was looking to sell his work to Turf War enthusiasts in Inkopolis. If Eight was hungry, the letter read, then she was welcome to help herself to any food and drink in the refrigerator. The letter ended with another apology.

Though she hadn't seen his weapons yet, Eight figured that this Maximilian fellow had a solid proposition coming. Tentatek's imported Octo Shot design had proved very popular amongst Turf War players. Eight herself had loved it back when she was still competing. If Maximilian started selling Octarian designs in Inkopolis, his efforts could prove quite disruptive to the industry. People loved new designs. Of course Ammo Knights would want to partner up with him.

Eight made her way into the dark mansion. The kitchen was to her left, and a sitting room was on her right. All the lights were turned off. Her shoes landed on damp carpet, the first sign that something was wrong. The air smelled of rust and vinegar. She kneeled down, touched the floor, and brought her finger back up to her face. In the darkness, she could make out a purple-colored liquid staining her fingertip. It was blood.

Her eyes followed the trail of magenta until she saw the body in the middle of the sitting room. Eight casually squatted on her haunches, unfazed by the grisly scene before her. She was no stranger to death. The corpse had been an older Octoling with greying hair and an even greyer suit. He lay on his side, skin ghostly pale and a single hole through his left eye. A large exit wound on the back of his head suggested that the deed had been done with a large-caliber weapon. _The work of a hired killer, probably._ Eight looked up and saw that the shot had shattered a mirror on the wall. It seemed the old man had been dead for several hours.

She briefly considered calling the police. But then she thought about how it would look. A female citizen of Inkopolis was alone in the house of a wealthy Octarian male, and he was now dead. Eight herself wasn't exactly the average citizen of Inkopolis either, with her spotty history and forgotten past. She would be detained and questioned, at the very least. She wanted to avoid that at all costs. So, she turned around and headed for the door.

Eight noticed that her shoes had left a trail of bloody footprints. _That was a mistake_, she thought with a grimace. It couldn't be helped. Her Octarian military training, which she could never seem to forget, had taught her to leave situations like this as quickly as possible. Making good distance was priority number one, regardless of the consequences. The training was intended to be used by guilty parties who'd actually killed someone. Eight was technically innocent, but as someone fearing getting caught, she fell back on her instincts anyway.

Back outside, she climbed over several small hills on foot. She exited the suburban neighborhood and made her way back to the town square. Her senses were on high alert. Her eyes flickered back and forth like searchlights. Thankfully, nobody was paying much attention to her. She was just another Octoling in a town full of Octarians, braving the rain with a black umbrella in her hand.

Eight walked into a military surplus store, where she purchased a pair of hiking boots. She entered a bathroom stall in the back of the store, switching her shoes out for the boots, then carefully wrapped her old shoes in paper towels. She placed the package into a trash can and covered it with even more paper towels.

The next train back to Inkopolis was departing in two minutes. Eight hurried into the station, where she purchased a ticket, power walked to the boarding platform, and quietly ducked into a cabin. As she sat down to collect her thoughts, she suddenly noticed that there was nobody else on the train. Then the door to the cabin burst open like a bomb had gone off, and she was surrounded by the police.

* * *

**1:58 p.m.  
****Cephalon HQ**

They took all her belongings. The had wrestled away her umbrella and the suitcase with her clothes in it, and snatched her phone. She understood that it was meant to disorient her, disarm her, make her prone to admitting guilt. Eight knew more about interrogation techniques than regular cops, however. She wasn't surprised by her treatment in the slightest.

She was questioned twice. Once as they were taking her away from the platform, and again after they had dropped her into a cell. The increasingly serious-looking uniforms on the guards suggested that she was moving up their local chain of command. The third officer who questioned her introduced himself as Sergeant Tim Ingila. He was an overweight and self-important Octoling who wore his hair slicked back and carried a spiral steno pad in his hands.

"Tell me your name," he demanded.

From the other side of the iron bars, Eight answered, "My name hasn't changed since I told the other two—"

"I don't care what you told _them_, I want you to tell _me_ your name."

"Meri Tursas."

"All right, Miss Tursas. _Where_ are you from?"

"That hasn't changed, either."

"Just tell me where you're from."

"Inkopolis," Eight answered, remaining as still as possible.

Sergeant Ingila raised an eyebrow at her. "An _Octoling_ living in Inkopolis?" he questioned.

"There's nothing wrong with that, last time I checked."

"What were you doing in Maximilian's house?"

"He wanted to negotiate a business contract with my employer."

"What _kind _of business contract?"

"Rights to sell merchandise through our store."

"You told Roberto that you were a custodian."

"I am. That's my official title, but I also design weapons and do some contract work."

"Sure you do... You think this is a funny joke or something?"

"No, officer. I do not."

"How did you get into the house?"

"My employer gave me the house's security codes, which I used to—"

"Your employer had Maximilian Ida's _private security codes_?" the officer interrupted.

"Yes."

"_Who_ is your employer, and how did he get the codes?"

"Sheldon Shellendorf, the owner of Ammo Knights. It's an armory and training range in Inkopolis Square. I believe Maximilian told him the codes over the phone."

"What were the security codes?"

"Should I be telling you that?"

"You want me to think that you _broke into the house_ instead?"

Eight rattled off both sets of numbers. The officer whistled, then pretended to write something down on the notepad. "You've got a good memory, Miss Tursas," he said. "_Suspiciously_ good... so why did you kill Maximilian Ida?"

"I didn't kill him. He was already dead when I arrived."

"Why did you run away, then?"

"Because I was alone in somebody's house at the scene of their murder. I knew what that would look like to you."

The sergeant narrowed his eyes. "We found bloody shoe prints in the house. Were those yours, by any chance?"

"Yes."

"But you're wearing _hiking boots,_ Miss Tursas."

Eight didn't budge. "I was wearing a different pair of shoes while I was inside."

"Where are those shoes now?"

"I threw them away."

Sergeant Ingila narrowed his eyes further. "Why?"

"They were wet, and I was panicking."

Sergeant Ingila sighed, exasperated by his subject's unflinchingly cool demeanor. The Octoling girl in front of him did not really appear to be someone prone to panic. "Are you _serious_?" he asked.

"Yes. The prints will match the bottoms of the shoes. That proves nothing except that I was there," Eight said, standing her ground.

"_Where_ are the shoes?"

"The military surplus store in town. I threw them out in the bathroom."

A third voice boomed from behind the sergeant. "I believe that I might have them right here," it declared.

Eight looked up calmly. From behind Sergeant Ingila, an eight-foot-tall Bathynomus walked into the room. He barely fit through the doorway. Clad in all black, with his eyes hidden behind a pair of tiny sunglasses, he held up Eight's discarded shoes in one hand and kept two other pairs of arms crossed. "They do not appear to be all that wet," Iso Padre noted.

She recognized him immediately. In an effort to conceal her surprise and maintain her cover, Eight directed her attention back to the sergeant. She noted the way he straightened his back and touched his heels together as soon as Iso Padre entered. It was a sign of subservience. Iso Padre was evidently the biggest fish in the local pond. In the years since she had last seen him, he must have moved up a few ranks.

He didn't bother introducing himself. "And I do not think your name is actually Meri Tursas," he said. "That taxi driver mentioned you had a Valley accent. I recognize a familiar face when I see one. You were originally from Octo Valley, not Inkopolis. You served under Octavio until you lost your memories at Kamabo Corporation. You are Number 10,008, and you work for Cuttlefish now as an agent of the NSS."

She met his gaze head-on, a little unnerved by the tiny, circular sunglasses. She had never liked the fact that she couldn't see his eyes. "...You must be mistaking me for someone else," Eight asserted.

"I beg to differ. Long time no see, young squire. You've gotten away with quite a lot in the past, but this time, I will be getting to the bottom of it all."

* * *

**8:24 p.m.**

Iso Padre did not speak to her again until night had fallen. He lumbered into the room and stood across from Eight's cell, all three pairs of arms folded across his chest. Eight stared back. From the perspective of Meri Tursas, this was all supposed to be a big misunderstanding. She was in town for business but got caught up in a mess that had nothing to do with her.

"You are lucky to have such good friends," Iso Padre remarked. "I just finished a pleasant phone conversation with your boss."

"You talked to Mr. Shellendorf?"

"Drop the act, agent. I meant Captain Cuttlefish. He assured me that you indeed did not kill Maximilian, and that your organization had nothing to do with his death."

"He was dead hours before I showed up. And I actually _do_ work for Sheldon Shellendorf."

"For my own sake, I cannot believe a word that comes out of your mouth. Please don't take any personal offense. It is a matter of professional conduct."

"...I understand."

"I am here to say that, as soon as your friends arrive, we will let you go. I wish you only the best, young squire, unless you decide to come back. I know that trouble trails you like a half-forgotten dream. Please refrain from ever returning to the Canyon."

With that, Iso Padre departed. Less than half an hour later, Sergeant Tim Ingila escorted Eight out of the prison. He wordlessly handed her phone and suitcase back. She spent a protracted amount of time examining the contents of her suitcase, making sure everything she'd packed was still inside. Much to her dismay, whoever had rifled through her shirts had done a poor job of folding them again.

Outside, two black sedans were parked on the curb. A uniformed Inkling, one of the captain's personal bodyguards, climbed out of one of the cars and opened the door to the backseat. He gestured for Eight to enter. She could see the captain inside—he was staring out the window. They sat next to each other without saying anything for several minutes. Eight occasionally glanced at the old veteran. Captain Cuttlefish did not bother to return her gaze.

His was the first face she'd seen upon waking up without any memories in the Deepsea Metro. He was the first friend she'd made, she had once believed. Now, Cuttlefish was just a former mentor to her. She just wanted him to leave her alone. Most days, Eight felt like strangling the man. Any day he showed up tended to become the new worst day of her life. _Although he did get me out of an Octarian prison today, _she admitted to herself.

The elder spy finally broke the silence. "I was wonderin' if I'd ever get to see Octarian territory from the ground again," he said. "Really takes me back."

Eight inhaled, trying to reconcile irritation with gratitude. "How did you convince them to release me?"

"Oh, ya know, the usual. Played the apologetic, paranoid old man card. Sorry for tramplin' on yer rights. Promise to never run unauthorized operations on yer soil ever again. We'll help you if we find anythin' about the murderer 'n' whatnot."

"Thanks. I'm sorry for the trouble, Cap."

Captain Cuttlefish finally looked at her with his beady, bulging eyes. Eight used to think that he was simply a crazy old man. Everyone thought that at first glance. But as she had grown to trust him, she slowly began to understand just how far he was willing to take his deceptions. He was a powerful spymaster who played his friends and foes alike. As the leader of the NSS, Craig Cuttlefish was nothing more than a professional liar. "Actually, kid, I think I should be sorry," he said.

There it was. There was always a catch. "...What do you mean?" Eight asked hesitantly.

The old Inkling clasped his shaky hands together. "Slipped one under yer nose again. If it weren't for me, you'd have never gotten involved with poor, poor Mr. Maximilian."

"...Did you kill him?"

"No," Cuttlefish replied, closing his eyelids. "He was supposed to live."

"...What did you have to do with this, then?"

The captain was silent for almost thirty seconds. Eight opened her mouth to ask him again when he finally answered, "Maximilian wanted to speak to me."

"About what?" Eight asked angrily.

"I'm not sure yet. But whatever he knew, somebody killed him for it."

"...Why did he ask me to go to his house? What the hell was that about?"

"I arranged that, kiddo. I had Agent 2 contact Sheldon with a legitimate job offer, one that he'd pass to you. I know ya both like weapons and money. I thought we could get into contact with Maximilian through you."

Eight rubbed her temples. "You used me again! Why couldn't you just talk to him yourself? You put me into the line of fire! I could have died!"

"Simmer down, kid, you're still alive. The shooter was long gone by the time you showed up, anyhow."

"No thanks to you!"

"I wouldn't do this sort of thing if I didn't need you, Eight," the captain spoke. "This ain't just business today. I'm afraid that—"

"Find somebody else to do your dirty work!" Eight shouted. "Stay out of my life!"

"Aren't ya curious about Mr. Maximilian Ida's history? His finances, his designs, his family 'n' whatnot?"

"No!" Eight lied. In truth, she was deathly curious. Curiosity, combined with tenacity, became an inability to let things go. That was her fatal flaw. That persistent, obsessive attention to detail meant that she could never stop asking questions until the picture was whole. Eight could never rest until a job was complete. It was a trait that made her very good at cleaning and maintaining weapons. It made her very good at creating elegant, airtight designs. It made her very good at tracking down and killing people that the captain wanted gone.

"Ask me about Maximilian," Cuttlefish goaded, fully aware of his former protege's tendencies. "I know yer dyin' to find out more."

Eight remembered Mr. Ida's body on the ground and all the evidence at the scene that she didn't have the time to examine fully. She remembered the uncomfortable feeling of leaving a mystery unsolved, of letting a crime go unpunished. The feeling of justice not being served, of order getting disrupted. It would keep her up at night, and she would toss and turn in bed over the details, searching for a way to resolve the loose ends in her mind. Then Eight suddenly recognized the deceased businessman's last name. "Does Mr. Ida have any surviving family?" she relented.

"Funny you should ask, kid. His family is cursed. Parents stabbed each other dead. Brother passed away suddenly right after Maximilian got his military contract. Wife committed suicide. He has a daughter named Marina who ran away from home and doesn't talk to him anymore."

"...Wait, Marina Ida? You mean _the _Marina Ida?"

The old spymaster gave Eight a sideways glance. "Ya know her?"

"Cap!"

"That's why I wanted you on this job."

"Damn it, Cap! You should have just said so! I owe Marina my life! Why can't you do things more honestly and directly?"

"Would you even have considered doin' the job if I did?"

Eight said nothing, and the captain gave her a smug _I rest my case_ gaze.

"Talk to her, kid. It'll be better than if this old coot tries to strike up a conversation with her."

"Her dad just got murdered," Eight exclaimed, touching the bridge of her nose with both index fingers. "By a professional assassin!"

Cuttlefish ignored her. "You and Marina are friends. You've got a lot in common. Yer both artists, and you both defected from the Octarian military."

"I'm not an artist. I'm the head custodian of Ammo Knights."

"Yeah, sure, kid. Yer hilarious."

"And I didn't defect. I lost my memories."

Captain Cuttlefish gave her a look indicating that he didn't care one bit about the distinction. "Talk to Marina, figure out if she knows anythin' about this. She might be in serious danger. We need to know what Maximilian Ida wanted to chat about. We need to find out _who_ wanted him dead and _why_. Yer one of the best for this kind of work, kiddo. Just go have a chat with Marina."

"...Fine, fine." Eight conceded as the glowing Inkopolis skyline came into view. "It's been a while since we last talked, but I'll do it."

This earned a satisfied smile from Cuttlefish, whose gaze went back out the window. For a minute, he simply stared at the well-lit view of his home. His shoulders slowly sagged into a more relaxed position. "It was impressive, wasn't it?" the captain said.

"What was?" Eight asked, more exasperated than genuinely curious.

"It was impressive, that Octo Canyon's police force managed to track you down just a mere twenty minutes after discoverin' the body. Iso Padre must be real good. I wonder how he did it."

Eight took a deep breath in order to calm herself down. She was coming very, very close to snapping the tiny old man's neck.

**¤~§~¤~§~¤~§~¤**


End file.
